


Camelot

by freezinginbristol



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, JFK - Freeform, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7422115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezinginbristol/pseuds/freezinginbristol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>11 o'clock at night seems like a wrong time to deal with 52 years of grieving and guilt, but with the sight of America soaked in rain and past mistakes, England is willing to make an exception. Besides, Camelot seemed to burn no matter how far they tried to outrun it. [Fem!America] [Mentions of FACE Family]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_The static from the radio is meant to wake her up, but she's still there, curled in a body of angles and uncertainty. The knocking that comes five minutes later doesn't make her stir because she knows the stranger has a key, or at least knows where it is, but only gives her the grace of the action to alleviate some of the awkwardness._

_It doesn't._

_America feels stiff, almost otherworldly by the time he steps into the room, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of untouched (and probably bad) hotel food left on the desk, along with the staleness of the room from drawn curtains, only a sliver of sunlight coming through and cutting across the floor, only to interrupted by his shoe._

_There are several holes in the walls, and Arthur almost doesn't notice the broken vase of flowers, water stain only starting to dry from where it was smashed against the wall. Nonetheless, he sits down across from her on the edge of the bed, eyes scanning over his child, (the word is the only one he can think of right now that is appropriate given the circumstances), so small it seemed in a black dress and bare feet._

_"America."_

_She winces, her only visible reaction to anything for the past week and a half, but otherwise shows nothing else, eyes still staring blankly at the closed curtains. He must make it harder, he thinks, her king whether she liked it or not, or some kind of knight for Jack, but in both cases-_

_Camelot burned every time it seemed._

* * *

52 years and even though it's his brother, that makes no difference.

52 years and she's inappropriate in this weather, soaking wet and dripping onto his carpet a trail of drain water and some mud from shorts, and t-shirt, and a pair of converse.

52 years and how she manages to stay this long without breaking down, England has no idea. But, ever the gentleman, (and she hates him for it sometimes), he closes the door behind them both before facing her, nothing between them but the sound of rain pouring outside and her own nerves, causing the word to spill out from America's lips.

"Hi."

He fights the urge to laugh. Or say nothing. Maybe some strange in between. "Hello." A sniff from her, and he sees the red in her eyes, a combination of no sleep and only tears for what he has to guess could either be the last few days or months. "Are you alright?"

Amelia blinks. Another sniff, and he stops his cringe as she wipes her nose on the back of her jacket sleeve, tied around her waist. "Yeah. No. Um, yes. I'm fine."

England nods coolly. "It's almost 11." The only reason he was still up was finishing some unexpected paperwork. Her eyes seem to concentrate more on the blue of his sweater than his actual face. "America."

She winces first, then looks at him second. "What?"

England fights back a sigh, his annoyance at this point slowly bleeding into actual concern, but ever the one for control, he doesn't let it show. Not yet. "Why are you here?"

Million dollar grin that doesn't distract him for a second; the sight, in fact, is almost painful, both in receiving it and watching her preform. "Couldn't sleep, and there was nothing to do over at the hotel either, so I though I'd pay my old man a visit and-"

"You're a terrible liar, Amelia."

The smile falters, for only a second, before placing itself back up again, her words a bit sharper now, but with the same dose of enthusiasm that would infectious to anyone not trained in the ways supposed Wonder Woman Amelia E. Jones. "Don't be like that, Iggy. It's hard enough as it is having all these ideas and energy running through my brain. A heroine never rests!"

She can't stand the way he's looking at her, that gruff exterior bleeding into parental concern and she has to mentally hit herself as if to say _remember remember you don't need your father_ but then again, a part of her doubts her strength in that respect. It wasn't her fault she was like this, right? Her hand moves to tug at her wet hair, trying to ignore the sound in the back of her brain of cheers and cameras and the smell of motorcycle oil-

"-listening to me?" England's voice snaps her back to something akin to the present.

She blinks. "Sorry, what?"

He frowns, before taking in a deep breath and moving forward, silently unwrapping the jacket from around her waist and hanging its wet contents on the hanger beside the door.

"What are you-"

"Upstairs. Bathroom's the second door on the left. I'll get you some clothes," he says, gesturing for her to take off her shoes. She bends, awkward and somewhat hesitant, and places them beside the door on the mat before the idea to actually protest this comes into he brain but by then he's already moving upstairs. She follows after him, careful not to create more of a wet mess.

"It's fine, really, I can just walk back." Another strained smile. "It's not a big deal, okay? Look, I'm sorry for bothering you, but you really don't have to-"

"You can leave your clothes outside the door. I'll get them." It's like her protests aren't even being heard, or he's just really good at shifting the conversation, but with that she stops completely in the hallway.

"I already told you, Iggy, _I'm fine."_

England can't help the eye roll. Because showing up at practically the middle of the night in the pouring rain seemed fine to her, and absolutely nothing violate and wrong about the situation to him. He turns, voice gentle but ever to the point, and folds the soft yellow of the towel. "I frankly don't care about your excuses. You don't need to throw a fit, or fight me; hell, you don't even need to talk to me. All I'm asking is that you get out of those clothes so that you don't make yourself sick."

America opens her mouth to retort, only to have nothing come out. So, when nothing comes, she tries pent up annoyance, catching the towel he tosses her and heads into the bathroom, door swinging closed behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

It's quiet when she moves out of the bathroom 20 minutes later, wrapped in a bathrobe that felt more like she was drowning in it than anything else. A glance at the floor of the hallway sees her clothes have indeed disappeared, and a new group have taken their place, folded neatly. Something harsh turns in her gut at the sight, and she pushes the unknown feeling down, grasping the contents and moving back inside.

Her father's old pajamas should offer some security.

It doesn't.

America would have stayed in the spacious bathroom longer, listening to last remains of water going down the dark drain, stark against pristine white, but the sight of that stranger in the mirror was becoming too much to bear. Sometimes she could feel it like she was his, _**pink dress suddenly turning wet with**_ -

No. Not yet.

The cold air when she comes out fully brings her back to something akin to the present, and her feet are cold are she moves back down the stairs. It's still pouring, and one look at the large grandfather clock suggest that 11:45 is too late for her to actually be able to convince him to let her leave.

Not that she wanted to, anyway.

So she wanders into the living room, more like a parlor than anything else, given the piano in the far corner. Her hand moves to find the light switch, and tries not to wince at the sudden burst of color to her senses, no longer muted by the dark sky and pouring rain outside, but a rich green and browns of furniture, slowly bleeding into the soft coolness of white and a part of her wonders how it would look in the sunlight as she sits at the piano bench.

The first press of white is quiet, almost like an afterthought before something buzzes in the back of her brain, and soft sound of notes comes out of her fingers before her brain can catch up with her objective actions- _under a bright blue endless sky_ -and for a moment there's something clearing inside of her and **_Dealy Plaza is a thin space luscious sun kissed burnt film with motorcycle oil-_**

"You remember that?"

America swears, louder than she means to, and then again as her knuckles bang awkwardly against the half opened lid of the piano keys, before setting a glare at the older nation, though he seems unperturbed. It's a second before she finds her voice. "Christ, could you not?"

He raises an eyebrow. "What? Breathing?" The aggression is a stranger in her body, he notes to himself, a skin she's wearing to cover up whatever damage was underneath. He can see it in the way she can't keep eye contact for longer than fifteen seconds, and her gaze goes back to that infernal habit of drifting off to some random object in the room, specifically that with any semblance of color, as if she was trying to absorb it with her gaze and failing.

She snaps back when she feels his hand taking hers, fingers ghosting over her knuckles as he crouches in front of her. The discoloration is too dark for it to have happened just now, suggesting the wound must have been received a while earlier. In realization of his analysis, he sees that talking goes over actually addressing the issue.

"You used to sing to me when I had bad dreams, remember, and I'm shit at playing anything on the piano but I guess this one just seemed to be the one that wanted to stick-"

She cuts herself off as he doesn't say anything, tension growing further and a part of Amelia wonders if England can see the clear dull grey in the midst of panic and the sound of her fists slamming against the concrete of a parking lot is almost enough to cure _**the shot in the back of her brain-**_

Her other free hand is the same way, Arthur notes with a pain mixed into the discovery, and she's tugging at the short strawberry blond lock again in some new habit of agitation. England can't help but chuckle softly at the slightly nervous tick, prompting a look of confusion from her, and it's only when their eyes meet that he really sees the exhaustion lingering. Faint, but at a constant that she had gotten used to, no doubt.

Five seconds and she's concentrating on the blue of his sweater again.

He is bold, bolder than he means to be, and carefully gages her reaction at his hand moving from her knuckles to pushing up the too baggy sleeve. The action is reminds him of being gentle towards a frightened animal, a finger brushing against the raised skin of her wrist and in less than a second she moves her hand away, tucking it in the folds of fabric.

Too much, apparently.

The words of 'you don't need to talk to me' comes back into the Brit's mind and he's mentally hitting himself for it. Her eyes are focused on the black of the piano bench now, and is worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. It's more out of fatherly habit than anything else that his hand cups her cheek, the pad of his thumb moving over and along her bottom lip until it came to her mind to release her teeth's hold on it.

"You'll hurt yourself."

She blinks, once, twice, as if suddenly seeing his presence for the first time. "Sorry." she says softly, and her eyes go back to looking for something else.

"You should sleep." He tries again, hand tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before moving from her completely. There's something of a ghost of a nod, and he watches her get up, something heavier in her steps as she moves back upstairs, and there's nothing left but him, something tasting like regret, and a piano.

England bites his tongue and moves back into his study.


	3. Chapter 3

He's still awake when the screaming starts.

The sound itself is a jolt to his otherwise dulled senses, given the lateness of the hour. England isn't even sure why he decided to stay up even after she had moved upstairs; possibly something out of concern and some time to think over her erratic behavior. At any rate, the absolutet fear that emgerges from the sound of her screams is like a punch in his gut. England takes the stairs two at a time, and the almost too harsh light of the bedside lamp he switches on reveals her twisted almost painfully, hands bunched around the fabric of bedsheets and another scream breaks forth, muffled by her pillow.

No wonder she hadn't been sleeping.

Instinct kicks over everything else, and he places a hand on her shoulder, despite her shaking frame, the other hand pushing back the hair from her face in some attempt to bring her back into reality. "Amelia! Hey, hey, it's okay. It's just a dream."

Just a dream.No, Dealy Plaza is a thin space, luscious, sun kissed, burnt film with motorcycle oil-

The words sound contrite, facetious, but he continues his ministrations nonetheless until she jerks, eyes opening almost sharply, and he watches, hands in a submissive position as she scrambles away from him to the other side of the bed, eyes finally managing to focus on him.

"What-" she stops, voice raw and in the dim light, he can see the wetness on her cheeks, wide eyes framing her too pale face. "W-what are you in here?" America's voice is sharp, almost as if he had walked in on her doing something important rather than being in crisis. England blinks, almost flabbergasted before the words come out in some attempt of calm.

"You were having a nightmare-"

"So? It happens, and that doesn't mean you can just come barging in."

"Why are you so upset?"

She starts at that, staring at him for a few moments before moving from the bed and out the door. The action has him surprised for a second before it clicks in his brain to actually follow her, moving back down the stairs. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Leaving." she snaps, angrily wiping her eyes as she looked around the entrance of the door. "Where the fuck did you put my shoes?"

the dress is wet. 

"Watch it." he warns, before moving forward, trying to calm himself and hopefully her. "You can't just leave, it's the middle of the night. I just want to know what's been going on."

Her head snaps up, and the words are hissed. "I already told you. I'm fine, so just drop it, okay?"

He's not sure if it's the fatigue, or her own words that make him snap for a moment, but either way he moves forward, closing the door with a firm push when she pulls it open (being stupid enough to forgo shoes) and there's practically furious electricity between the two of them before he speaks, voice firm. "If you honestly think I'm going to let you leave in the middle of the night after being visibly upset about whatever is or has been going on in your head, and not to mention, after you show up in practically nothing in the middle of a goddamn storm, then you have another thing coming, love."

America stands there, stunned at the older nation's outburst. "I'm-"

"I swear to God, if you use the word 'fine' one more time-" England cuts himself off, trying to center himself. "I am...concerned about you. And forgive me for wanting to help when I find my child in distress!"

"You can't help!" America pushes past him, hand tugging at her hair again in some frantic effort to still whatever was going on in her brain. "You're not going to understand how it feels to be standing there, sitting by myself and having to watch it all fall apart all over again. H-having to see Bobby go down like a ton of bricks and then it's like I'm in the car with Jack and there's people screaming and blood everywhere and I had to keep it inside!" she jabs at her chest with a finger, voice breaking "Every year I have to keep it all inside and while America is able to grieve, I can't!-"

She cuts herself off again, trying to pull herself together but by then he's had enough, moving forward and bringing her into the circle of his arms. She doesn't realize that they are on the couch in the next instant, partly because of her own growing panic, only quelled by her nails digging into her skin, and also with the quickness of which he puts an end to the action, securing her wrists before she can do anymore damage to herself.

"It wasn't your fault." The words are something of a mantra in the way England says them, and Amelia takes a shuddering gasp.

"H-he said he was going to t-try and make things easier because he knew how hard it had been after the blockade and he and Jackie had the fucking nerve to say they were proud of me-" she breaks again, fingers curling into his arm as she cried against his shoulder, and England has to push down the anger at the feeling. Not on her actions, not that at all, but rather how the same feeling came up no matter how hard he tried not to think about it.

Attraction was a difficult thing, especially in the case of nations and their human rulers, and having someone as shining and bright as Kennedy living the White House at a time when the rest of her world felt so out of place...it was easy to feel more that grief at the loss. God only knew he felt it with Diana.

It was easy for her to feel responsible of burning down another Camelot.

England's hand rubs her back, small, soothing circles that force her to concentrate on regulating her breathing, which she tries, given his encouragement and her own growing fatigue. Save for the occasional hiccup here and there, her crying spell was mostly finished.

It's still.

His hand is carding through her hair, fingers lightly pressing on her scalp and America can feel something sad coming back to mind, amidst the gunfire and sunlight.

He shifts, and she thinks that she should get up and move back to bed.

"Stay. Please." Her voice is soft, and the sound of it sends a pain into the older nation's chest, watching her for a few more moments.

America is asleep before he can give anything akin to a proper answer.


	4. Chapter 4

_**And I remember when I met him. It was so clear that he was the only one for me.** _

_There's something off in the body politic, she can feel that much with her legs shaking and her brother's eyes on her, purple tinged with worry. She can feel the question on the tip of his tongue and shakes her head slightly, both to keep up appearances and to steady herself._

_It's a frown on her face at the drop of red on the stacks of white paper when she gets up to the front of the room and out of the corner of her eye, she can feel the weight of the gun and a match in one hand. Fingers move, brushing under her nose and staring in confusion at the sight of blood on white finger tips before electricity shoots up her spine and her head hurts why does her head hurt-_

_In the wake of it all, England doesn't let her body hit the floor._

**_We both knew it right away._ **

_The way Jack smiles brings something sad to mind every time, a brushing of opportunistic hope that she was supposed to embody and it was like he knew that she could, but also she has to fight the wince of green eyes and late nights with no such thing as radio and television and cars running by and Jackie is like a-_

_"-queen of everything don't you?"_

_"That's not what I want, and you know it!"_

_They are stupid and she is young and he is so old too old to watch it all fall apart so quickly because of a stupid drink._

**_And as the years went on, things got more difficult, and we were faced with more challenges._ **

_At any rate, she puts an end to any civil conversation between her and the Great British Empire with a china plate thrown at his head._

_A blink._

_She is herself and not herself, white shirt and black skirt giving way to light pink- the dress is wet- and she is moving over the hood of a car and someone is screaming people are so loud and she can hear someone speaking in a garbled rush of languages that she cannot understand and where is Jack I'm his wife damn it where is Jack I'm the united fucking states of America and I have lost my friend give him back please God no-_

_**I begged him to stay. Try to remember what we had in the beginning.** _

_Her father asks her to dance during the inauguration ball._

**_He was charismatic._ **

_She bites her tongue and takes his hand, trying to ignore old memories of her small feet on top of his-_

**_Magnetic. Electric. And everybody knew it. When he walked in, every woman's head turned. Everybody stood up to talk to him._ **

_"Daddy's busy." she says, and picks up the four year old and Caroline is sweet but stubborn regardless._

_"Always busy." she pouts._

_"Yes." The sight in her arms makes her wonder how he must have felt on long summer days, bounding into his office with her brother on her heels and a oncoming recipe for disaster and scattered papers. "Yes, I know."_

**_He was like this hybrid, this mix of a man who couldn't contain himself. I always got the sense that he became torn between being a good person and missing out on all the opportunities life could offer a man as magnificent as him._ **

_Dealey Plaza is a thin space with a bullet in the brain and it's a week later, alone in a hotel room that her fist collides with the bathroom mirror._

**_And in that way I...understood him. And I loved him._ **

_Camelot's burning because of missiles and tea._

**_I loved him._ **

_She can't make eye contact anymore, not after Bobby._

**_I loved him._ **

_Her father's eyes are calm even with the ever growing weight of her body, night sky growing darker as he carries her to bed._

**_I loved him._ **

_Fight the urge to hurt yourself and claw out of your own skin and not sleeping is a cure for the noise inside her head and in the air. The dress and her hands and her face is wet like the ocean dividing them both._

**_And I still love him. I love him-_ **


	5. Chapter 5

She wakes to blue.

It doesn't process fully in her mind, as the warmth and security that surrounded the nation was almost enough to pull her back under. And back under she nearly goes, until the material against her cheek shifts slightly and the lingering smell of chamomile and old books comes into her senses. Her nose scrunches, confusion muddled with drowsiness, and color takes its place for tangible shape and texture, a pattern of even layers and stitches coming into play in her clearing vision. Along with this, the weight on her upper back, flat and slowly kneading tense muscles before it changes, patterns traced along her spine, (she swears the relaxation that comes from it is witchcraft) and she barely has enough energy to lift her head and have blurry blue lock onto something other than half dreams moving behind her eyelids.

His eyes are very, very green.

She knows the sight from somewhere, the color stirs in the back of her brain sensations that move to her nose and fingers. The scent of warm tea, spice and sweet weight tinged with honey moving down her her throat and settling into her stomach while her small fingers play with white and black keys, pressing downwards before turning to look at that face with the expectation of pride and security in those eyes that stain her childhood and her father is-

Her father.

_Oh._

Whatever she had been allowing herself to be drowned in is cut away by the embarrassment curling in her stomach, not only with the obvious of showing up to his house uninvited and unannounced to cry over something that she shouldn't be feeling anything about in the first place because _they've died before but no one like Jack,_ but also with her body practically sprawled out on top of him in some mad dash for comfort that she could only assume had broken forth from last night.

That and a shitload of unaddressed grieving.

So here she was, America, curled up with her parent like a child, her fingers still curled in the blue of his sweater with his hands lightly resting on her upper back in some secure embrace.

"Good morning."

The sound makes her jump, and she's close to falling off the couch in a tangle of heavy limbs and a blanket that she _knows_ was folded over the arm of the chair when she got here before the vertigo causes her world to go off kilter.

England's hands rest on her shoulders, settling her back down. "Slowly." Her frustration at herself and his damned caring flares in her stomach, making an uncomfortable mess along with her shame at her childish actions from last night. She has a second to see the slight smile curling at the corner of his mouth before the headache burst forth, blooming at the base of her skull like some macabre flower.

"Ow. Okay. No. Pain. Ow. Ow. _Ow._ "

It's weakness, she tells herself. Spur of the moment that causes her to press her face against his chest.

Damn her for acting this way.

Damn him for caring.

Damn his fingers moving to tangle into her hair, pressing down lightly against her skull in some effort to relieve the ache. "You're dehydrated."

She snorts. "No shit, Sherlock." That earns her a light pinch on her side, more of a lazy reprimand than anything else. America manages to look up at him to fix him a glare, to which he has little to no reaction. "Painful." she deadpans.

"Language." Arthur says simply, and in the same tone of voice. She opens her mouth for another retort, but at this point is too tired to actually think of anything useful, letting her head fall back to its original position. His fingers return to their action, giving a few moments of silence before he speaks again. "We need to talk."

There are no words for a few moments, and he lets his eyes wander over her head to the cloudy morning outside, heavy and tinged with grey and leftover rain.

"Ibuprofen."

He can't help the smile as he looks down at her, her head turned now to the side, staring at the expanse of the living room. Arthur can feel her fingers still curled in his shirt, nails brushing against the soft fabric of his blue sweater.

"Food first. Medication after," he says softly, stilling his movements. There is some silence for a few moments before her voice breaks it.

"Eggs Benedict."

England can feel something sad in the way she says it. "Sure."


	6. Chapter 6

_"-trees knocked down on 47th-"_

_"-educational system in relation to Germany simply must-"_

_"-order now for only-"_

One hand continues to play with the dial of the radio on his kitchen counter whilst the other is near her mouth, teeth biting on already stubbed fingernails. She's perched like a cat, he notes somewhat sleepily, one leg hanging off on the counter with her bare foot in a space between her limb and the floor while the other is brought up to her chest, chin resting on her knee.

America can feel him watching her out of the corner of his eye while he waited for the eggs to finish poaching, but says nothing of it, gaze occasional moving from where she watched her own hand to looking at him. It's oddly domestic, and makes something akin to warmth start to bloom in her chest at the quiet of it all, the only sound the light simmering of water and their combined breathing.

Up.

_**sun kissed.** _

Down.

_**climbing over the car the dress is so very wet-** _

_"-could've long traded in your braided crown by now_

_You could've found that Anabaptist girl you always used to go on about."_

Her hand stills from its fiddling on the dial as her father begins to hum along with the music, voice soft and carrying her out of whatever her mind wanted to drag her back into, though her nerves are still there, and it's noticeable enough to England she assumes, as his hand moves to brush against hers that rested on the counter, as if giving her permission to breathe, to relax, to do something other than fiddle and fiddle and fiddle.

She stiffens.

A bird calls from outside. A crow? Perhaps.

He moves away as quick as anything. As if nothing happened. As if-

Her teeth return to their actions before his voice breaks the silence, transitioning the eggs into cold water. "Do you want-"

"Couch." she cuts him off, voice almost dull and trying to hide the dead weight that threatened to creep in. She was going to regret this choice of closer quarters. At least in a dining room they would have a table separating him and her brain.

_"-fill our den with acorn mast,_   
_I'll wake before the salmon pass_   
_Ten foot more and nothing moves."_

England bites back a sigh and folds another paper towel as she jumps down from the counter and out of the kitchen.

* * *

_Question 1_

"Did you go out recently? Around London?"

His voice is casual, and damn him, it makes her body relax somewhat on the couch, plate only half empty and placed on the side table. Amelia blinks, fingers tracing along the white of his pajamas. She should get changed soon.

"Yes."

His head is tilted resting against the curve of the back of his hand, and his gaze on her. "With whom did you go?"

She runs a hand through her hair. "Mattie."

England nods, as if contemplating her answer. "Did you steal anything?"

She laughs at that, hiding her face in one hand and both their slight smiles are mostly an agenda. "I'm guessing that's a no?" he asks over her light laughter, as if the question was unbelievably absurd.

"Wha- I don't know. I mean, hell, if we did, you wouldn't have to ask." Her head lifts and he notes her smile of dying laughter is more directed at his sweater again that his actual face.

"Are you shy?" A beat. "I'm shy."

She has enough courage to lift her head at that, confusion evident. "You're not shy. You're the Great British Empire."

His gaze hasn't left her face. "I'm shy. I overcome my shyness, or for a better word, introversion, to get things done. Both outwardly and inwardly."

Her gaze drops again, fingers still fiddling with sleeves before her voice comes out, quieter than before. "I don't think you are." There's a stretch of silence between them, and she forces herself to act somewhat normal at the feeling of his weight shifting closer, mirroring her legs crossed underneath her on the couch.

"Amelia, I want to be frank with you." The words feel heavy on Arthur's tongue. "And yes, from at least a political sphere we have a prescribed relationship," she smiles at that and he can see the effort that it takes from her, "but you should really feel...free." A slight intake of breath. Then a nod. "To discuss your problems with me."

Her fingers are still tugging on her sleeves, and one hand moves again to tug at her hair, while a breathless sight moves past her lips. "Oh."

He's still looking at her. Why is he still looking at her?

"What's going on with the Band-Aids?"

Her head snaps up at that, trying to pass off swirling emotions as general apathy or at the best, confusion. Her hands curl and uncurl in fists. He's still looking, green eyes holding nothing akin to major anger, but just goddamned concern. "Amelia," he says again when her head drops down, tugging down at sleeves. The evidence of sin from last night is apparent on her forearm, his box of Band-Aids opened from underneath the bathroom counter and placed on with precision that's almost painful to realize.

"I feel-" she breaks off, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Shy," they say together, and there's another soft laugh as her gaze meets his again. He sobers, shifting his weight slightly. "Do you want some Ibuprofen?"

She had almost forgotten about the ache in the back of her skull. "Okay."

England smiles, turning slightly in his position and opening the capsule, pouring two into her hand, and tries not to wince as she dry swallows them. Her head tilting back as her hand moves up to her mouth, tossing them in. Arthur takes a breath before speaking, and passes her his unfinished glass of orange juice.

"Why do you cut yourself, Amelia?"

America swallows, fingers now tracing along the cold rim of the glass before her gaze moves from orange to blue to green that continue to look at her. "I don't know."

Another intake of breath. "Is it that sometimes the pain inside has to come to the surface, and when you see evidence of the pain inside," his gaze only flickers down to keep things even as he folds up the material of her sleeve, but she keeps watching him. Her stillness is permission at this point. "You finally know you're really here?" No longer a walking ghost amongst history. And when you see the wound heal," his fingers trace over the Band-Aid, and then downwards amongst the older lines of raised flesh on her skin, "it's comforting."

She tries to speak, but nothing comes to her brain for the first few moments. "I- that's a way to put it, I guess."

The guilt she felt for one man was almost sickening.

The fact she still felt the need for punishment with it, he notes as he turns her hand, seeing the discoloration of her knuckles and fingers, was worse.

"I'm going to tell you something. Not as a colleague, but as someone who cares deeply for you. Are you listening?"

"Yeah."

"Look at me." England's voice is softer now, and something in his chest aches at the utter apprehension in her eyes. Like he was telling her off for taking a cookie before dinner. His thumb begins to create small circles along her knuckles. "Are you listening?" he asks again.

She nods. "Yeah."

His eyes and voice are cool and calm. "I cannot begin to completely understand the feelings that you have moving inside of you. I am not going to pretend I do. But given our circumstances, I can only do what I know best from both professional and personal experience. Miscommunication is a constant, unfortunately, but I want you to hear me when I say this: You will never, _ever_ , cut yourself again. Do you understand? Have I made that perfectly clear? I am not going to restrain you, belittle you, or anything along those lines. As long as you are my child, you won't do something like this again. _Ever again_."

America blinks, and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the statement. The words were nothing new, but coming from _him-_

_It's different._

He softens again, free hand moving to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "You're quiet."

"I thought you'd want me to be."

He laughs, bringing her hand closer and pressing a soft kiss against her bruised knuckles. "No, sweetheart, not like this. I mean, this is-" he stops himself.

"After he died, everything went so fast and November was finished for everyone else, but for me," she stops herself. "I was still in the car with him. With both them. All those bright lights and cameras and sunlight and it was one of the ways I could get the world to stop spinning."

Like it ever stopped.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS 
> 
> One more chapter after this, don't worry! :)

"Amelia."

She doesn't stir immediately, eyes staring blankly at the television in front of them. They haven't moved from the spot on the couch, not even to clear away the dishes left on the coffee table, and even if he wanted to leave, she probably wouldn't have let him, weather she voiced it verbally or not.

America is content here, at least for now.

They had been brave enough to move from sitting side by side to the slow introduction of his arm across the back of the seat, and painstakingly, over ten minutes, her side against his, curling her feet up onto the seat and finally ending with his arm around her shoulder, light enough to let her move when she wanted.

That was almost 45 minutes ago.

Almost 45 minutes that she lets the calm tracing of his fingers on her upper arm distract from the itch underneath her skin.

Almost 45 minutes that he is silently keeping tabs on her tense nature, as if torn between him and isolation, shifting occasionally as if to order her body to stay here. England notes the way her nail digs into the button of the remote as she switches the channel to some documentary about whales, and he tries again.

"Amelia." And there is a barely audible hum in response. Arthur 's voice is soft. "You can take a break."

She shakes her head, the action almost violent, and begins to worry her bottom lip with her teeth again because _damn it she was better than this for god's sake-_

"I'm fine."

England fights the urge to roll his eyes because the words are so mind-numbingly _hollow_ it almost makes him sick. Instead, he keeps his gaze on the dark shades of blue ocean shown on the television screen, noting that her not dealing with the problem of this ever present anxiety was in its own way a form of self-abuse. Which he knew that she knew, and would try to use to her advantage as much as possible.

She shifts again, and he catches the wince now when she adjusts the volume, her hands probably still sore from whatever she had slammed them into in the past 48 hours before her words come out, slightly strained. "I told you I won't do it anymore."

"I'm not disputing that."

"Then what exactly?" And she can't stop the flinch of his hand moving on top of hers, pressing softly against too fresh bruises.

They're almost sickly, blotches of purple and blue coming up underneath pale skin that felt too dry for his tastes. "You could have broken your hand," he mutters, thumb running over the ridges of her knuckles.

There's something of a dry laugh. "Wasn't really thinking about that at the time." He frowns at that, unseen to her as she's gone back to watching the documentary, tenseness still present.

America's teeth dig into her lip again, as if trying to stop herself from saying anything else. The older nation sighs, still examining the damage and discoloration of her skin.

Ten minutes and the itch is back again and he is so damn _caring_ it makes her want to scream, his actions and person and soul more gentle than she's been used to, or let herself experience for decades.

His fingers have moved, now shifting himself to be able to card his fingers through her hair, pressing lightly against her scalp as if trying to calm down the buzzing in her brain. Her throat tightens at the feeling.

_You're okay._ she tells herself. _Breathe because he is okay and here and safe and he would never leave you like-_

Her grip has tightened, fingernails pressing into the fabric of her pants because _she needs to breathe has to breathe breathe damn it breathe breathe breathe-_

She doesn't realize he's tugging her up for a second, and the warmth of the living room somehow morphs into the slight chill of the downstairs guest bathroom. Arthur directs her slowly to move and sit on the edge of the bathtub as he moves through cabinets before pulling out a smaller towel, cotton balls, bandages, and rubbing alcohol, and coming to sit beside her, placing each object on the lid of the toilet seat.

The sound of the bathtub water running brings her out of her daze, and she watches as he turns it to cold, running the towel underneath the flow of water for a few seconds and squeezing out the excess before taking her hand into his, turning over her palm to reveal the bruises on her knuckles. The contrast of cold on her slightly burning hands is something of a relief, and she exhales the breath she didn't know she had been holding.

"I propose a rule." his voice is soft, and America frowns slightly in confusion, biting the inside of her cheek out of apprehension of the statement and his fingers now rolling up the sleeve of her shirt, gently taking off the bandages across her forearm.

"A rule?" The Brit stills, giving time for her to re-center herself, and it's a few moments before she squeezes his forearm as permission to continue.

"More of a challenge actually," his lips curl upwards at her snort, "it seems to be more up your alley anyways. My challenge is presented to you as thus: you are to refrain from using the word 'fine' from your vocabulary. In regards to your emotional and mental health, I mean."

This was new. America opens her mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes has something in them that makes her stop. She stares at him, this person whom she couldn't understand why he would even bother with something like this.

Like her.

America gives a slight hiss through her teeth as the rubbing alcohol makes contact with the wounds on her forearm due to the collection not being fully healed. He gives a quick apology, and she can feel his efforts in trying to be as gentle as possible.

"Why are you doing this?" The question can no longer stay inside of her brain, as he finishes placing on the last bandage and turning to throw the used materials away. A hand comes up, brushing the hair from her face and tucking a lock behind her ear.

"Why shouldn't I?"

Even after they leave the bathroom, she can't find a suitable answer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT OWN HETALIA: AXIS POWERS

And it is later. And she tries to forget how she left his living room later that day with now dry clothes and a twist in her stomach. To wander around like a ghost. And it is much later, with the passing of a storm and the passage of something not quite like time that she is sitting with a cup of coffee with too much creamer and sugar in a cafe with him sitting across from her.

They try not to look at each other.

Later, hours later, upstairs, her shoes make contact with the wall and she moves to the bathroom to dry heave in the toilet. America shudders, fingers gripping the sides of the porcelain rim and tries not to think of it. She also tries not to think of how stupid she is for not closing her room door when too familiar hands hold the hair from her face until she's done.

"Have you eaten?" England is always so calm, how is he always so calm?

The toilet flushes. She rinses out her mouth and spits in the sink. "Can't."

He hums, and the unspoken question of "cannot or will not" flickers between them before they exit the bathroom and he sits on the edge of the bed. America moves (because she must but why must she) to fiddle with curtains and look outside at the night.

"Will you come to dinner?" he asks. She bites the inside of her cheek. The mistakes on her right thigh are itching again.

"Do you want me to?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want you to." he replies simply. A beat, and then his hand extends. "Come here."

She doesn't move, not immediately, and it's because her feelings are more a strange mixture of sickness and shame than anything like forced outright anger that she so often used when it came to him and any displays of affection, or worse, sentimentality. America's fingers play with the material of the thick curtains before she steps back and turns to look at him. And then she climbs onto the bed, head on the pillow and curling one leg up to her chest a sort of half, fetal position. There's a moment before he shifts, and is lying beside her on his back, ankles crossed neatly over one another.

"Does it get any easier?" she asks.

He stares at the ceiling and she stares into the space between them.

"No."

She looks at him. There was a small quirking of the corner of his mouth.

"Yes." he says with a small chuckle and then sobers. "It gets easier."

"Oh, yeah? Look at you." She gives something of a chuckle and the sound makes the both of them relax. "Arthur not quite Britain."

"Thanks." he rolls his eyes and it's another laugh from her. "The more you practice separating yourself from everything else, the less things upset you. The other you, I mean."

"Yeah," she agrees softly. America's fingers curl into the white comforter. "I just..I just don't know who I'm supposed to be, you know? Tried being serious like all you old folks and then tried shutting myself away from everything and then acting like fucking Betty Crocker-that was pathetic. I hate what I do." There's an exhale of something akin to surprise from her, a realization. "I always have. Mediocre. All these things, like some weird photography phase. Or horses. Or something." She turns her head to look at him, shifting a bit closer. "You know, taking dumb pictures of your feet."

England runs a hand through his hair. "That's strange. But given your description, I'm not worried about your abilities. Weird photo metaphors aside. You'll figure it out."

She turns fully to him. "I'm weird."

He turns to her. "Weird's okay. A trait the world shares."

A beat. Her voice, smaller. Softer.

"What about this?" The unspoken "us" is painfully obvious. "Does it get any easier?"

He doesn't speak for a moment, looking at her, and then past her shoulder to the other wall, and the door left slight open leading into the bathroom. The nation inhales, shifts a bit.

"That's...that's harder."

Of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tired but wanted to get this out and I promise there will be another chapter!


End file.
